


Your Faults

by kayabiter



Category: Cursed (TV 2020)
Genre: Alcohol, Bards, Brief Mention of the Witchers, Inspired by Poetry, Lancelot vs Bards, M/M, Minor Fantastic Racism, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:55:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26466796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayabiter/pseuds/kayabiter
Summary: Trapped in a little village by the spring rains, Lancelot and Gawain - and two more dozen Fey - face an unbearable wait for a break in the weather. But with an odd bard appearance, something is finally set into motion.
Relationships: Gawain | The Green Knight/The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed), Pym/Original Female Character (background)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 41





	Your Faults

It was not every day that a famous bard happened to pass through a backwater village like the one they had found a brief refuge in. Or so Gawain said, and the man’s excitement was contagious - and so Lancelot found himself nodding when the knight asked if he would join the frugal festivities tonight. 

Lancelot himself, he did not know a lot about bards. Sure, he had seen some of the flamboyant figures in the town streets, bowing at giggling maidens with a flourish and a smug smirk under their groomed moustache. The moment they had seen his grim attire, their eyebrows would shoot up, and they would look at their companions as if inviting them to share a joke The Weeping Monk was not aware of. He strongly suspected the joke had been at his expense, though. It had always made him stiffen and straighten in Goliath’s saddle, as he would guide the horse just a tad too close to a songster, making them step back and more often than not stain their bright stockings with roadside mud.

However, despite all the silent animosity between them, Lancelot had been secretly fascinated with his extravagant rivals. Sometimes, sitting next to the fire and listening to the same old stories from his Red Brothers that he’d heard five times before, he had wished desperately for a song more refined. Once or twice, he had managed to sneak out and listen to bards from afar. But more often, he had been on the move, hunting one thing or another, passing through the villages in a hurry and not looking back. Besides, Father used to say that indolence lead to unholy thoughts - which broadly encompassed just about any feeling a young man like Lancelot could have had. And such, he had given Lancelot a hard time in an attempt to keep him pure, promising the hardships will be rewarded - just you wait a bit more.

Looking at Gawain as the man wove through the crowd, clasping the hands of fellow Feys and waving at someone - ah, Pym, Lancelot saw as the fire from the torches reflected in her hair; and there was Percival, just a step behind - looking at the knight, Lancelot is sure the old man hadn’t known a thing. Here was his reward, with an arm slung across Pym’s shoulders, laughing at another barb the redhead no doubt let out about the villagers, and ruffling the boy’s hair. Percival grimaced and pulled back, but even from a distance, Lancelot could see he looked secretly delighted.

“Lancelot! What are you still doing there? Come closer, you won’t hear it well from there.”

The Ashman highly doubted that, given that he could make out a nightingale sing in the forest over the murmur of the crowd. But he also knew what they actually meant, and strode over without further delay.

Gawain paved the way with a polite but fierce smile plastered to his face, Manblood villagers grumbling but stepping aside - and perhaps Lancelot’s gloomy face might have aided at that. 

“I’ve heard they even invite her to the courts,” Pym readily shared a gossip, and Gawain hummed, impressed, while Lancelot tried to hide his surprise. Her? He had never seen a lady bard before. 

“Are there many like her?” he asked Gawain softly, and the knight looked at him briefly before his eyes were drawn to the delicate-looking dark-haired woman, talking with someone across the square. That must be her, Lancelot thought; when the woman turned around, and their eyes met, he was briefly taken aback by the intensity of her gaze.

“Not many,” he heard the knight’s reply, and though barely a moment passed, it startled him so badly the Ashman jumped a bit.

“Are you alright?” Gawain frowned in worry, and Pym glanced at him as well, just as Percival - great, now they were all looking at him. Months had passed since the last violent nightmare that ended with the Green Knight holding him on the ground and calling for the healer to bring some nightshade _right now_. Why won’t they let it go? It was embarrassing.

“Yes,” he huffed out, and Gawain relaxed at his petulant tone. “Just looking out for those kind fellows,” he nodded to the side, and the Fey followed his eyes.

Across the clearing, three burly villagers stood, their arms crossed and shoulders rolled in what usually passed for an intimidating display in tiny settlements like this. It hardly fazed the two battle-worn Fey - four, Lancelot corrected himself, as Pym squinted scornfully and Percival scowled fiercely. Both had been through too much to be intimidated by mere posturing, but the villagers were obviously gearing up for a real fight.

Giving the tension that had been mounting for weeks between the Fey and the men, it was hardly surprising. Maydays, for all their warmth, had brought along the thunderstorms, and the roads turned to mud, effectively trapping the Fey in a little swamp village. Though they had allowed them to stay, the villagers were even more skittish than usual, and slowly the tension had grown into a suffocating cloud over everyone’s heads. When Lancelot stole a look at Gawain’s face, the men’s eyes were dark and hard, a sharp contrast to his unconcerned smile.

To his relief, they were saved by the bell, as the bard took a step forward, the crowd’s attention snapping at her at once. The woman walked unhurriedly to the centre of the round patch of grass under the sturdy old oak that served as her stage tonight. With the way she held her head, it might as well have been the king’s hall, and anticipative silence fell over the crowd. Vaguely impressed, Lancelot hid it by folding his arms and shifting slightly. 

“Good people of Wetwood,” she started, and her lilting voice carried easily over the space, “and their Fey guests,” she shot a look at Gawain and, improbably, the knight looked slightly ashamed as he lowered his eyes and grinned awkwardly. The Fey around him snickered and the villagers seemed to loosen up a bit. The vague feeling of respect took root in Lancelot’s soul as he saw the atmosphere diffuse with barely a greeting uttered.

“It is my honour to sing in front of you this night,” the woman continued. “And to pay respect to the age-old traditions of this place, I will begin with the song that was written at this very place centuries ago.”

Lancelot was not aware there were any traditions in this God-forsaken place, and he was not sure it was not an artistic exaggeration. Still, it seemed to appease the Manbloods, and for that, he was grateful. His soot-streaked eyes were trained on the bard as the woman perched upon a stump and put her hands on the strings of a lute.

It was a strange song, unlike any of the raunchy ditties or boisterous ballads he had heard before. The clear, melodic sound of her voice brought forth the memories of old times and early spring. As she sang about the eyes of the restless old gods, viridescent with trouble, Lancelot could not help a look at the man at his side. The song unfolded, a story of a woman fleeing through the forest, the royal bloodhounds on her heel, and Lancelot shifted uneasily. But then he heard longing tinge her voice as she crooned, and it stirred something in his chest that had nothing to do with fear.

“What is her name?” he whispered to no one in particular.

“Hellawes,” Pym muttered absently, not taking her eyes off the woman. The song came to an end, and as the bard’s voice trailed off, he could see a few women from the village wipe at their eyes with their aprons. Even so, they smiled and blushed, batting at their husbands’ hands, as the men teased them gently in hushed voices. The Fey were just as quiet; for a beat, as the song seemed to settle in everyone’s hearts, the only sound was the crack of the torches and the crickets. And then, they all - Fey, Manbloods, and a few in between - hooted and clapped, as the bard smiled, an edge of melancholy still lingering on her face, and bowed slightly. Her movements were graceful, but reserved, stopping just shy of being too much, as if she could see some invisible wall - it reminded Lancelot of the way a good warrior swings his sword.

She waited until the clamour died down and then looked up with a flash of a sudden grin, which made Lancelot’s heart skip a beat. Strumming her fingers across the strings of the lute, she hummed a few notes, and the villagers perked up, unsure smiles spreading over their faces. As Hellawes tapped her foot, her hands moved faster and faster, and the villagers started smiling in earnest and clapping, a rhythm Lancelot did not recognise, until on a high note, the bard opened her mouth and broke into a merry hunting tune. It did the trick of lifting everyone’s spirits, and by the end of it, even Fey started clapping along, albeit a bit shy.

As the song was finished, even the fire seemed to burn brighter, and the first hesitant smiles were exchanged across the clearing. Lancelot shot a quick look at the brawly lads. They still frowned as the Feys clapped, but their shoulders were loose, and he glanced away before they could notice him staring. 

The bard seemed to have an inexhaustible repertoire of songs, regaling the Fey and the men with tales epic, and witty, and tender. Must have been well-travelled, too - there were quite a few songs from other kingdoms, and Lancelot suspected there must have been many more in other languages that she did not want to confuse the people with. It did not stop her from sneaking in a couple of Fey songs, which was met with cheerful exclamations from one side - and wary but curious glances from the other.

Time flew by as the woman sang, but finally, she strummed the last chord and bowed deeply, putting her lute to the ground. The applause was deafening, and she appeared to soak in the attention with a delighted smile. There were shouts for more, but the bard rose her hand and shook her head, gesturing at the throat with a tiny morose grimace. It was getting colder, and the audience relented, though not without good-humoured complaints and chuckles.

As the crowd started to dissolve, Lancelot was still staring at the bard. He caught sight of her eyes, and she inclined her head in a silent greeting. It was almost enough to make him make a step forward, but then he felt Percival tug at his sleeve, and turned back.

He must have been truly enthralled, because how else could he miss nearly a dozen of sturdy young men surround them in a wide semi-circle. Hackles rising, Lancelot tensed, hands itching for a sword, but kept still - would have even without Gawain’s warning look. It would only take a little spark to ignite the situation.

“How can we help you, good men?” Gawain asked, feigning an innocent smile. It was a good one - but not good enough to assuage the men who seemed dead set on starting a brawl with them.

“You,” one of the men spat out, “can help by leaving and never coming back.”

“We will leave as soon as the roads are passable,” the knight repeated his promise, raising his hands in a placating gesture.

“You keep saying that”, the villager observed grimly.

“Well, I cannot command the rain,” the Fey replied with a dark chuckle, but the villagers did not seem to appreciate the joke.

“Perhaps you can, perhaps not. Or perhaps you should leave anyway.”

“Do you suggest I risk the lives of my people in these swamps just because you are full of foolish prejudices?” Gawain flared up, losing his temper at last.

The man’s face contorted in anger and he wrapped his fingers around the handle of the axe. Lancelot fell into a fight stance at once, one hand flying to the hilt of his sword, as he pushed Percival back with another, ignoring the boy’s indignant squawk. Pym stood wide-eyed and pale at their side, but he could see from the corner of his eye that she was clutching a small knife in her hand, hidden by a sleeve. Good girl.

Suddenly, there was a blur of green and white next to him, and the man stumbled back as Hellawes shoved him with all of her strength. Lancelot immediately wished she wouldn’t have. She had an advantage of surprise, but she was too small to really be of help in a fight - they would just need to protect her as well.

Or perhaps not, he decided, as the woman opened her mouth, an enraged expression on her face.

“You should be ashamed!” she spat out, furious. “Don’t you know where you are standing? This very oak witnessed the Fair Folk and Men unite as Lady Ingaret married Lord Fawkes the Ashen of the Fey!”

“What does it matter for us what happened more than a hundred years ago,” one of the men muttered darkly, running a hand over his jaw.

“What happened once, can always happen again,” the bard said sharply, “and it was, for once, a good thing for all. Gods know those are far and few between these days. So you’d better remember and honour it instead of picking up fights.”

“Wisely said, Master Bard,” sounded a new voice, and when Lancelot glanced to the side, it was, to his surprise, a Manblood – Bradyn, the head of the village. He did not look as angry and bitter as his mates, though - if anything, his face was gaunt with tiredness. 

“Forgive the lads. They are hot-headed, but not for the reason you think,” he shook his head, coming closer and standing between the men and the Fey. “Paladins came to our village last fall, looking for Fey. Haven’t murdered anyone but…” he broke off, an unspoken understanding between the two parties. For a moment, the Fey were silent, their faces turning guilty.

“I am sorry,” Gawain uttered, finally. “But why haven’t you said anything?”

“Didn’t want to dredge up the past. Was not your fault, anyway,” the man shrugged, as it was the simplest thing in the world. Lancelot peered at him, looking frantically for the tell-tale signs of a lie, but the dark-ringed grey eyes were calm and honest. The Ash-man swallowed, as he felt the villagers glare at him, but where once he would have cowed or gotten mad, he now straightened.

“Once we can travel, we will make sure they do not bother you again,” he heard himself say, and Gawain’s eyes flickered to him, but then returned to the Manbloods and the knight nodded. It seemed to take some of the wariness out of the men, and Lancelot felt Percival shift beside him.

“Thank you, Bradyn. For everything,” Gawain bowed his head at the man, who returned the gesture before taking the brawler by the shoulder and leading him gently away. The other men exchanged looks, but followed, still giving the Fey a wide berth.

It was only them and the bard now on the clearing, and Lancelot’s eyes turned again to the woman who seemed to wield words as he did steel. She stared defiantly back, eyes narrowed, and it reminded him vividly of his encounters with the other members of that guild.

“Thank you,” he heard Pym say, as the girl stared at the bard, breathless and flustered, her hands twisting in the scarf.

“Ah, don’t mention it - perhaps I just can’t stand the people who don’t listen to my songs,” Hellawes said haughtily, but it did not fool anyone. “And I do treasure the history of these places.”

“That’s how you know about the wedding?” Gawain asked after a pause, unsettled. This lingering struggle of the Fey was starting to weigh down on him, making him guard everything that belonged to his folk - even the stories covered in the dust of centuries.

“Oh, calm your fervour, the Green Knight,” the bard gestured impatiently. “The better question would be, why don’t you.”

Twice in one evening, Gawain looked ashamed at the dainty woman’s reprimand, but even he could not argue with her words. Lancelot, though he would never admit that, felt vindicated for all the moments he had been completely wrong-footed by the intricacies of Fey society and history.

“I knew about the legend,” the knight mused, “but not that it happened here”.

As he paused, Pym, who was looking between them back and forth like it was the best thing that ever happened to her - well, at least it was the most entertaining in the past month, that Lancelot could admit - jumped at the opportunity to pipe in.

“But for truth, how do you know that? You’re not even from here.”

Hellawes shrugged. “Well, I have a friend who keeps company with the most interesting individuals. She even knows one monster hunter…”

“It is Little Eye, isn’t it?” Pym nearly squealed, pressing her fists to the cheeks.

“Perhaps,” Hellawes smiled mysteriously, and Pym gasped in triumph, “so yes, she knows this monster hunter who told her the most wonderful stories…” and there was laughter in her voice, that same bardic laughter as if there was a joke behind her words that they just did not get. But for once, Lancelot did not feel the need to bristle at that, listening instead with bated breath -and trying desperately not to show it. “He told her his mentor once travelled all the way to British Isles to break the curse that forced Ingaret to run every time Fawkes appeared, even though she wished dearly to wed him, and he her.”

“How did he do that?” Percival got a word in, and Lancelot could not help a smile at the serious look on the boy’s face. Sharing a glance with Gawain, he could see the same warm amusement crinkle the knight’s eyes. Perhaps, he wondered, the child had someone specific in mind; he would need to look closer from now on.

“Well,” Hellawes answered, her face just as serious as the boy’s, “the details are a bit sketchy - those hunters are not known for their volubility - but it might have involved a truly horrendous amount of hemlock and toad skins.”

Percival beamed just as Pym groaned in disgust, and Lancelot almost burst into laughter at their faces. Gawain was not doing much better, desperately trying to mask it with a cough. The boy opened his mouth to no doubts clarify the exact proportions, but Lancelot noticed the quick look Hellawes’ sent him and put a firm hand on his shoulder.

“Percival, why don’t you take Pym to the stalls and buy her a pie to apologise,” he said with a tone that implied it was more than a suggestion.

“Apologise? For what?” the boy asked indignantly.

“For ruining my favourite legend, you varmint,” Pym deplored, sending a look at Lancelot that said she got it. He tilted his head in silent gratitude, eyes following the two as they walked away, arguing amiably, before he turned back to Hellawes and Gawain.

He was startled to see that the bard was staring at him with a strange look in her eyes that, as confirmed by a cursory glance, was mirrored in Gawain’s.

“What?” he croaked out, suddenly uncomfortable.

“So, here is the infamous Weeping Monk,” the woman mused, “defending the villagers and admonishing a child for being rude before sending him to fetch pies for his friend”.

Lancelot stiffened, clenching his hand into a fist.

“What of that?” he gritted out, and Gawain, glancing quickly between them, opened his mouth, but Hellawes beat him to it.

“Forgive me - I must have not conveyed the meaning I intended,” she said, shaking her head. “A shame, really, for my trade. I hope you will not tell anyone about such a transgression.”

The Ash-man gazed at her levelly, his face impassive, but, after a pause, nodded curtly. Another tense moment passed, and then the bard broke in a grin which he answered with a slight curl of his lips. He could hear Gawain let out a breath, and barely suppressed an eye roll.

“Now, what I wanted to say,” Hellawes continued airily, and there was something predatory about the way she raised her chin and smiled that baffled him at first, “is that the tales of my fellow scribes certainly do not do your character justice. Perhaps you would entertain me with a true story?”

Lancelot finally deciphered the glint in her eyes and immediately glanced nervously at Gawain. The knight was watching him closely with a tense look in his face, but said nothing. When he did not reply, Hellawes’s eyes followed his and she made a soft surprised sound.

“Ah,” she muttered, “I think I see what that story is like.”

Out of instinct, the Ash-man opened his mouth to protest, but then he caught the flicker of hurt in the knight’s eyes, and closed it again. Looking between them, Hellawes tapped at her chin with a delicate finger, the toe of her boot moving in perfect sync. 

“Well, good sirs, seeing as I’ve just made a complete fool of myself not once, but twice, I think it makes us even, Sir Green Knight. And such an occasion calls for a drink. Would this charming abode happen to have a tavern?”

“Yes, though when you see it, you would probably wish it didn’t,” Gawain nodded and hooked his arm in an invitation, at which the bard lifted her eyebrows, but accepted with a small smile. “Allow us to join you, Lady Hellawes; I believe we can still offer you the tales that should at least relieve the boredom.”

“Oh, with such a company, I don't think I'm in any danger,” the bard grinned and stretched her other hand to Lancelot. He looked at it as if it might bite him, at first, but then his eyes met Gawain’s again - warm and unafraid; and so, he accepted. Curling his fingers around the bard’s, he marvelled at the warmth that immediately seeped into his skin from their touch. Glancing up one last time to make sure, he was met with two amused smiles. Such expressions would have usually made him bristle, but now the tiny weary beast in his chest recognised the kindness unerringly, and Lancelot smiled faintly back.

\---

Much, much later that night - in fact, the sky was more grey than black by then, and Lancelot could hear the mice flit through the grass with a soft rustle to hide in their burrows - he and Gawain stumbled back into their room. The knight was laughing quietly, clutching his stomach as he slid down the wall, and Lancelot could not help but grin back. His cheeks hurt, unused to smiling for so long - but it was such a minor thing. Closing his eyes, the Ashman exhaled slowly, a faint smile still on his face as he took a moment to collect himself and retrace the events.

\---

The night was incredibly, unbelievably good. At first, it had been just the three of them huddled in a corner with tankards of weak ale, the only thing the tavern seemed to serve. Which explained why there had hardly been anyone in it.

Hellawes had made every effort to draw him out of his shell but had done it so subtly he had barely realised it himself. It had been a welcome reprieve from a slightly more blunt attitude of Fey. Even better, when Gawain had wondered how she reached the village in spite of the storms, the bard confessed she was lucky to have a quarter kelpie as her steed. They had almost had to restrain Lancelot when he had wanted to go see it immediately, placating him with a promise to introduce them tomorrow.

He had just felt the weight lift off his shoulders in earnest and had started telling a story about how the Red Brothers had hunted a unicorn for weeks only to find out it was a goat so old he turned bright white. But by then, the rest of the village had caught a rumour that the bard was in the tavern, and slowly, both humans and Fey had trickled in. They had nodded at each other with wary politeness, even as a few of younger ones were peeking from behind their wardens, obviously eager to play. The adults, in turn, had pretended to have polite conversations about the matters mundane. Still, Lancelot could clearly see how they kept trailing off, heads turned slightly to catch every word of the conversation at their table.

Hellawes and Gawain must have noticed that, too. They had exchanged a glance and, when the woman had raised her eyebrows conspiratorially, the knight had shrugged with a crooked smile. Hellawes had immediately stood up and gestured widely at the crowd, inviting them to join - which they had not taken long to do.

As the tables had been pushed together, the bard had waved at the bar, requesting something worthy of this glorious night, in her words. Seeing such a commotion, unheard of in these parts, the tavern keeper had dashed into the cellar and brought to light a crate of wine bottles that must have been stored there since Lord Fawkes was but a babe suckling at the queen’s regal tit. There had been no other words. It had been ancient. The wooden planks had almost rotten through, and it had been a miracle they didn’t give out on the way from the cellar to the tables; the spider webs covering it like a shroud. Both sides, forgetting all about their enmity, had stared at the crate in reverent horror. 

And then the spiders and mice had come running out.

Chaos had reigned free over the tavern, as girls had squealed and darted away, bumping into each other, and even some men had sworn - though no one would admit it later. It had taken some time to restore the order, as Gawain stood shoulder to shoulder with Bradyn, each bellowing at their people. Both tried to only command their side but had soon given up, as, by the time the dust settled, everyone had mingled together. Village girls pressed to Fey warriors chest, giggling and pretending to faint, and the Fairfolk just grinned and shook their heads at their antics. The blacksmith’s lad had found himself steadied by the elbow by a Tusk woman, and flushed right up to the roots of his hair. But what really made a lump rise in Lancelot’s throat had been the children. They had been laughing in delight at finally getting to tug, push and pull at each other, as their mothers had looked around frantically. In one of the corners, the tiny Moonwing had clung to the village healer, who looked stunned, but had held the girl as gingerly as she would her own. 

After that, the night had been a whirlwind of tankards, smiles and, of course, fables. It had been as if the dam broke and the stories had just spilt out, as everyone rushed to put a word in. They had even had Lancelot retell the one about the unicorn. As the crowd had howled with laughter around them, Hellawes, having heard it already, had stared off into the distance, running a finger over the rim of the tankard.

“I think,” she had said with a wise air of someone really drunk, “you have something far rarer”.

Lancelot had thrown her a questioning look, but the moment had been broken a one of the village boys had climbed onto his lap. Apparently, the child had lost a toy; and he had heard that Lancelot was really good at tracking. So could he please help him find it.

Absolutely wrecked, the Ash-man had obliged at once and rose, letting the boy lead him to where he last saw the toy, his tiny hand tugging at the man’s sword-calloused palm. Thankfully, it had been a bit further from the crowd, and he had been able to pick up a scent - straw and the boy’s warm skin - to find a tiny stuffed horse laying on the floor under one of the broken chairs. The boy had been elated and insisted on hugging him. Lost, Lancelot had obediently crouched in front of him. Little fox had latched onto him in a blink and refused to let go, which had left him standing awkwardly, looking helplessly around for the boy’s parents.

The Hidden had mercy on him, and soon Bradyn had come to relieve him of a precious burden. With one last smile at the child carried away by his father, clinging sleepily to the broad shoulders, Lancelot had looked back at the table. His eyes had found Hellawes first, her bright presence impossible to miss. The bard had been immersed into a conversation with - Gawain. Pressed into Pym’s side - the girl did not appear to mind at the slightest - she had been gesturing wildly with one hand as if explaining something to him. The man had nodded, lips moving silently as he had seemed to recite something. The knight’s cheeks had been flushed slightly from the wine, but his eyes were bright and clear as ever, as he stood, arms folded, in the middle of the crowd of carousing Fey and Manbloods.

Time seemed to slow down for Lancelot, as he stared at the man, everything else fading into background. He wanted to trace the line of Gawain’s throat with his fingertips so badly it almost hurt him. That vulnerable hollow of the neck, the tender pale skin so thin there that he could see the beat of Gawain’s pulse... I must be drunker than I thought, he told himself and made his way outside to gulp in the chill night air, inhaling greedily and closing his eyes as the faint scent of smoke and cold grounded him. He just started to sober up, but then the door creaked open again, and the familiar warm hand clasped his shoulder.

“The air is getting a bit stale inside, don’t you think?” he had heard Hellawes say lightly and turned around to look at the two. It had been eerie, how good they looked together, how in accord they moved after mere hours of knowing each other, and Lancelot felt a pang of jealousy in his stomach. It had not even been as if they were doing something: the bard had been inspecting her fingernails as if they held the key to the secrets of the universe, and the knight had just stood there, seemingly waiting for something.

Ah, Lancelot realised, they had been waiting for him to say something. He had licked his dry lips and exhaled slowly.

“Yes. I'd better see to go.”

“Always better to leave too early than too late,” Hellawes had nodded, not raising her eyes for a moment, but then she seemed to shake it off, “On that note, I think I will retire for the evening as well. May you have a good night, and I shall see you on the morrow,” she had announced with a flourish of her hand, but then immediately snorted in the most undignified manner and, with a parting warm smile, slipped into the darkness.

“Shall we escort you?” Gawain had called out, ever a knight, even in his cups.

“Don’t make me embarrass you once more, Gawain!” had come from the darkness, and the man had sworn softly - and then again, when the door nearly hit him as it flung open, revealing a very ruffled Pym.

“Where did she go?” the girl had blurted, looking at them wildly and swiping away the rogue strands of hair. Gawain had pointed without a word, and Lancelot could just make out the slender figure slow down and turn around, as Pym darted into the darkness.

They both had listened for a moment longer to the light footfalls. But as they had heard that high-pitched laughter their friend only dissolved into when absolutely besotted answered with amused but warm words, both men rolled their eyes, and relaxed, leaning onto the porch railing.

With just the two of them, it should have been more familiar, but something had kept throwing Lancelot off balance each time he looked at the knight for too long. It had seemed to him that awkwardness between them was so thick, he could barely trudge his body through it as they had walked back to the blacksmith’s house, in a spare room of which he and Gawain had stayed. All of a sudden, he had missed the hustle and bustle of the tavern. The predawn twilight had put its cold fingers under his cloak, so he tugged it closer, suppressing a shiver.

The knight, who’d walked silently by his side, noticed - of course, he had, he always did - and had begun recalling one of the anecdotes the villagers shared. At the first one, Lancelot had just hummed lightly, but the Fey had not given up - and after the third story, the Ash-man had barked out a quiet laughter that startled even him. But Gawain had just grinned right back, and then they kept swapping stories until both of them had been shaking with silent laughter, unable to make a sound.

\---

Now, though, as they sat across each other in the dim light of predawn, Lancelot appreciated the quiet. He was leaning against the wall, head thrown back, a pleasant chill against the short hair on top. Staring at Gawain from under half-closed lids, he found himself wondering again at what the skin of the man’s throat would feel like - but the feeling was softer now. Less wild. It did not twist his stomach, and he let the thought stay in his head, drifting around.

Gawain was similarly dazed, mirroring his stance as he sat with one knee propped up, his fingers running over it again and again - Lancelot was not even sure he was aware of it. 

“They came to tell your faults to me,” Gawain uttered suddenly in a soft, far-away voice, as he stared blindly into the wall, and Lancelot snapped out of his haze. He perked up, his mind catching up with the words, and frowned slightly. Before he had a chance to ask what the knight meant, Gawain swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and spoke again.

“They named them over one by one,” and this time his voice was still quiet, but it was firmer, and his eyes were clearer. He still did not look at Lancelot, though.

“I laughed aloud when they were done, I knew them all so well before,” he said in one breath, and Lancelot’s heart lurched. Clenching his hands into fists, he could feel the nails dig painfully in the palm, but no sound escaped him. He waited.

“Oh, they were blind,” Gawain continue, fierce conviction ringing clearly in his voice as it rose briefly, “too blind to see…”

He paused, visibly steeling himself, and Lancelot felt as he was on hanging on by a thread, but then the knight gathered his courage and finished. 

“Your faults had made me love you more.”

They were silent for a moment, and Gawain was looking at him now, and Lancelot stared right back, the marks on his face burning as he struggled to find his voice.

“Say it again,” he croaked out, at last, not taking his eyes off the man, who frowned slightly in confusion but complied.

“They...”

“Not that.”

There was a brief silence, and then Gawain spoke again.

“Your faults had made me love you more.”

Lancelot closed his eyes. He could feel his heart pounding, an unwieldy, elated thing trying to burst out of him. He swallowed around a lump in his throat.

“Again,” he choked out, trembling - but he needed to hear it once more to believe it.

“Your faults,” Gawain started, and his voice broke, so he stopped for a second, “had made me love you more.”

He was crying now, Lancelot realised, those were the real tears that burned his face this time. With shaking shoulders, the man folded on himself, wrapping his arms around the knees and hiding his face in them.

“Lance?” Gawain called out hesitantly, and he must have moved closer because there was a warm hand on his back. “Do you want me to leave or?..”

The Ash-man made a strained sound at that that was at once pleading and frustrated. Even though he was absolutely certain Gawain would not actually leave - would linger behind the doorstep, worrier that he was, making sure Lancelot did not do something stupid - he could appreciate the thought. It was the last thing that he wanted, though, so he pulled himself together enough to tug at the man’s arm.

“If you leave, I am never talking to you again,” he hissed out and, to his utter humiliation, sniffled. “Just give me a minute.”

“Of course,” Gawain nodded seriously, and, by the Gods, this stupid, noble, kind man was going to be a death of him.

Actually, scratch that.

“I changed my mind,” Lancelot announced and the knight just looked completely lost.

“About?..” he prompted.

“I don’t need a minute.”

As their eyes met, he could see the entire gamut of emotions sweep over Gawain’s face. It was fascinating, but what would have been even better was to finally put his mouth on the knight’s.

So Lancelot leaned forward, closing the distance between them, and kissed the man, and he did so with a smile.

**Author's Note:**

> The poem is ["Your Faults"](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/46010/faults) by Sara Teasdale (if you are into The Witcher, check out ["The Accidental Warlord and His Pack"](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1683661) by inexplicifics, it is brilliantly written - and I found that poem through the fic from these series).  
> Fun fact: I named the bard Hellawes because of the most popular folk-rock singer in my country, and only later, while reading up on legends for another fic, learnt about her role in Lancelot and Gawain's stories. The song she sings in the beginning is ["The Royal Hunt"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UDVQliJjbpE).


End file.
